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Friday, February 25, 2005

Why you should go to the Red Line, unless you are PREGNANT and can't

So I have lamented a couple of times here that now that my mind has gone through the bellyaching of deciding to have a baby, my =actual- belly seems to be dragging its…feet. Or something. I continue to find this tiresome.

That said, I am also a little glad about this womb foot dragging, because every time I do something, I think about not being able to do it anymore…when I am pregnant. For instance, lying on my back. Nope—can’t do that in the later months of pregnancy! And also, lying on my stomach. That will be out for the obvious reasons.

But the other big thing I will not be able to do once pregnant, and probably not very often once bebe arrives (and I can once again assume all sorts of normal lying down positions) is go to bars. And this is very sad for me, because I love bars. I like the kind where you wear jeans and sit around and drink Old Style, and these are often the smokiest ones which means that they will be the ones that are Right Out once I am prego.

The –only- good thing about the impeding departure of bars from my life is that now I have a very good excuse to go to them all the time—and a very good line with which to manhandle B. into going with me (he, sadly, does not particularly like bars, which makes me think that maybe he should be the prego-getting one).

Case in point: last night I wanted to go out to a bar, and b. said that we should not because it was late and we were tired and hadn’t we already been out to a bar this week? And normally he would win that argument, but not now! No! Because of the bebe, or the hope of it. I win! So off we go to the Red Line Tap.

And we are so glad we did, because, although we had forgotten this, Thursday night is Open Mic night at the Red Line. Had we remembered, we would not have gone b/c who wants to sit around listening to melodramatic folk singers do bad impressions of Ani DiFranco? I am so past that. But this turns out to have been a very special Open Mic, because the ani-impersonators were outnumbered, and indeed outplayed, by a series of large and chaotic musical outfits playing instruments like euphoniums and—I’m not kidding here—wash tub basses. In fact, one band (which turned out to be an ensemble band from the old town school) had TWO, plus a guy playing the spoons and a very cute girl with pig tails blowing on a whiskey jug. And like six other people banging on things like flower pots.

Also, the guy with the euphonium was wearing sort of a sequined choir robe.

The music was not –all- that (the junk yard ensemble, though very fun, had a hard time incorporating modern “microphone technology” into their act so they were a little hard to hear), and if you had gone to a performance theater night in college expecting to see some crazy-sequined-euphonium-shit, you would not have been blown away.

But since no one at the bar was expecting to see anything like this, the evening had an incredible energy. The whole haphazard audience (a typically “diverse” Rogers Park group of men with few teeth and the less hipster of the hippies) had its collective mind totally blown. It was fantastic. And I will definitely go back, and so should all of you. Unless, of course, you are pregnant. Then you can just hang-out waiting for me to sulkily join you in the not-going-out-but-also-not-LYING-DOWN excitement of your lives. I can just hardly wait.


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